


The Forget-Me-Not Affair

by Pony Girl (Jackjunkie)



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackjunkie/pseuds/Pony%20Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon believes he's killed Illya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forget-Me-Not Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Ouch! #1

Napoleon Solo looked from his watch to the building and back to his watch again.

"Come on, Illya, come on," he exhorted softly under his breath. Raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes, he aimed them down the hill and scanned the area around the building once again. Still no sign of his fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent.

His communication device signalled. Laying down the binoculars, he withdrew the apparently simple pen from an inner pocket. Removing the top, he responded, "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, I am awaiting your report." Mr. Waverly's voice was tinged with impatience.

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid I've been..." Napoleon hesitated, looking uneasily at the switch sitting on the ground next to the binoculars. "...Delayed," he concluded.

"Delayed? That won't do, Mr. Solo. It won't do at all. We're on a very tight schedule here, as you are aware. The detonation should have been accomplished eight minutes ago."

Napoleon cast another hurried glance at his watch. "Yes, sir, I realize that, but you see, Mr. Kuryakin has not yet cleared the laboratory. Since THRUSH is not set to release the weapon for another two minutes, I wanted to give him until the last possible moment..."

"Yes, yes, very commendable. However, you must understand that we cannot under any circumstances wait past the allotted time. That weapon must be destroyed, along with all records of the research that led to its creation. The fate of the entire world depends on it. Mr. Kuryakin knows the risks and knows he is expendable. We all do. You may have one more minute and then you must proceed with your mission. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Solo out." He recapped the communicator and returned it to his jacket pocket.

The minute passed. Napoleon's finger hovered over the button on the switch, but did not touch it.

The seconds ticked by.

He swept a last look across the building below. With five seconds to go before THRUSH took irrevocable action, he pressed the button. An explosion obliterated the laboratory at the foot of the hill.

Napoleon gathered his gear and walked away without a backward glance. He had just killed his partner. What was there left to see?

*****

Illya Kuryakin ran.

He knew he was running for his life. Indeed by rights he should already be dead. He didn't know what was keeping Napoleon from setting off the detonation, which should have occurred minutes ago.

Illya hoped it wasn't any misguided, emotional notion of friendship. No, Napoleon was a professional. This mission was too important to be sacrificed for one life. They both knew that. Risk was part of their job description.

Not that he was exactly complaining about still being alive. All things being equal, it was the condition he preferred. He decided to take the opportunity he'd been given and worry about the consequences later.

So he ran, knowing that at any moment the world could explode around him.

And just as he thought that, it did.

*****

"The mission was a success, Mr. Solo. Millions of lives were saved. I'm sure Mr. Kuryakin would feel it was worth the cost."

"Like that old joke, eh? The operation was a success, but the patient died. I'm afraid I have a problem appreciating success at such a high cost."

The agent stood at the window in Waverly's office. He continued to stare out at the city, but all he could see was a pair of blue eyes gazing reproachfully at him from under straight blond bangs.

"That's understandable. We may know the risks in advance of our actions, but we're still human when it comes to dealing with their effects." Mr. Waverly stifled a sigh and swiveled his chair toward the window. Directing a sympathetic look at Napoleon's back, he said gently, "It's still not certain, you know."

Napoleon turned to face him, the hard look in his eyes matched by his equally hard voice. "No, I know. It's been a week. If Il..." He stopped, clamping his lips shut, unable to utter the name without feeling overwhelmed by guilt. After a moment, he resumed speaking. "If he'd survived, he would have contacted us by now. He would have found some way, no matter what." His jaw set rigidly, he turned back to the window. "No, he's dead."

A moment of tense silence passed.

It was Mr. Waverly who broke it. "I still think you ought to consider taking some time off."

"No!" Napoleon's answer came instantly and insistently. He took a breath and faced his supervisor. "No," he repeated, "there's no point. As you explained, this work is vital. Let me get on with it."

Mr. Waverly contemplated him a moment. "Very well," he said at last. "Have a seat and I'll brief you on your next mission."

*****

Darkness.

Black darkness and a blinding light exploding across it. Waves of pain stabbing through his head. He tried to lift a hand to it, but he couldn't move. Couldn't move his arms, couldn't move his legs.

Was he trapped?

Paralyzed?

Dead?

There was a thought. He latched onto it. A moan escaped his lips as the pain stabbed again. Death was supposed to bring peace, not pain. Perhaps he wasn't dead after all.

He opened his eyes to see.

No, this place didn't look like any image he'd ever imagined of the afterlife. It didn't look familiar either. He wasn't sure what it looked like.

Actually, he wasn't sure of anything. Where was he?

For that matter, who was he?

"Ah, our patient's awake, I see."

A face swam into view. It bent over him, peering into his blinking, tearing eyes. A hand appeared, feeling his head, his wrist.

"Yes, he's coming around. I think we can try some questions now."

Another face loomed over him, smiling toothily. "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Awake at last. Ready to answer some questions about U.N.C.L.E., I hope."

The voices were not speaking in the language he'd been thinking in, but he had no trouble understanding them. He answered in the same language. English, he thought it was called?

"I-I'll try to answer your questions."

His own words sounded a little different to his ears than theirs had. A trace of an accent. Perhaps because he'd been thinking in Russian? Yes, Russian, that was it. He felt glad to be able to identify something.

"I'm so pleased you've decided to cooperate."

The expression on the face didn't match the words. He didn't look pleased. He looked disappointed.

"Yes, I-I will, but I'm afraid I don't remember much." He tried to concentrate, but it hurt to think too hard. "What happened? Who's this uncle? Kury-Kuryakin? Is that my name?"

"Are you saying you don't remember your name?"

"No, I-I don't remember much of anything, I'm afraid."

"One moment."

The faces disappeared from his view, but he could hear snatches of a muttered conversation. "Useless...better than interrogation...great opportunity..."

He squinted down his body and saw that his arms and legs were strapped to a bed. No wonder he couldn't move.

The faces came back. The man attached to the first one set about unstrapping him, as the second spoke to him in a kindly voice.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I'm afraid you've been in a terrible accident. We had to strap you down for your own protection during the healing process. Here, let me help you sit up."

The other man handed him a cup. He looked blankly at the colorless liquid for a moment, then took a tentative sip. In a moment he was slurping the water thirstily and listening to the story they began to tell him.

"Your name is Illya Kuryakin and you work for an organization called THRUSH..."

*****

Napoleon moored the small boat carefully to a tree and jumped ashore. This section of the island seemed deserted. He began to walk carefully through the lush tropical greenery.

If his information was correct, this island was the only habitat of the rare tropical jansoo plant, whose flower was being used by a THRUSH botanist in secret experiments.

If THRUSH was successful in distilling the essence of the flower into a mind control drug, the results could be catastrophic. THRUSH must not be permitted to influence the world's political and business leaders into doing their bidding. U.N.C.L.E. had assigned agent Solo to stop them.

The thick jungle ended abruptly. Halting at its edge, Napoleon spied a rambling house set in a large clearing. His task was to find a way to infiltrate that house, find the botanist, and put a stop to the experiments - a walk in the park for him ordinarily. All he had to do was decide on an effective angle of approach, while his partner...

He forced himself to stop thinking as part of a team. It was so ingrained in him to automatically plan a deployment of two agents, but he was flying solo on this one - living up to his name in earnest now.

At least they'd had the grace not to foist another partner on him, at least not yet. He intended to see to it that it stayed that way. He'd do just fine on his own. The last thing he needed was another partner. Hadn't he proved that by what he'd done to his last one?

Waverly could talk all he liked, but there was no getting away from the fact that it was Napoleon who'd pushed the button that sent Illya to his grave. It was one thing to risk himself, but he didn't want the responsibility of another agent's life, thank you very much.

So it was no use now thinking about Illya and remembering all the good things about their partnership. He firmly rechanneled his thoughts. There was no way he was going to go through that again. It was much simpler working alone. He liked it that way - solo Solo, that was him from now on.

He finished sizing up the grounds and made his way to the side of the house. From here he could see that the back gardens led down to a beach where the island curved around into a small cove. THRUSH agents patrolled the beach and the rest of the grounds.

Patiently Napoleon watched and waited, learning their routine, then slipped past them and into the house through a side entrance.

Holding his gun at the ready, he moved quietly through the hallways, checking each room and avoiding the personnel who occasionally passed by, occupied with some errand. When he finished with the first floor, he mounted the stairs to the second.

Pressed against the wall at the top of the landing, he snuck a quick look around the corner. Walking down the hallway straight towards him was...Illya.

Napoleon's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Lowering his gun, he stepped into the center of the hall to face the friend he'd believed to be dead. "Illya? Illya, you're alive!" he cried as a range of emotions raced across his face, from disbelief to amazement to relief to pure joy.

Illya stopped in mid-stride. He looked up to see Solo confronting him. He dropped the folder he was perusing, the papers fluttering to the floor. Reaching to his holster, he drew his gun and pointed it straight at Napoleon.

"Illya, are you all right? Where have you been? We all thought..." Napoleon had started toward him, hand reaching out, barely registering the pointed gun, when it finally dawned on him that his partner wasn't responding as might have been expected.

"Hold it right there," Illya said.

"What? What are you saying? Illya, what's wrong with you?" Napoleon was utterly confounded. His friend was making no sense.

"How do you know my name?" Frowning, the blond raised his left hand and rubbed his temples.

"How do I...? You're my partner, of course I know your name!" An explanation gradually occurred to Napoleon. "What have they done to you?"

"Partner? I don't know you." Even as he spoke the words, though, Illya sounded unsure.

"Of course you know me. Illya, I'm your best friend!" Napoleon protested. "They used that mind control drug on you, didn't they?" Looking beyond Illya, he suddenly exclaimed, "Leave him alone!"

"What?" In his befuddled state, Illya was easily distracted. He looked behind himself, but saw nothing there.

Napoleon grabbed the gun from his friend's hand and shoved it in his belt. He then took a firm hold of Illya's arm.

Illya turned back and tried vainly to free himself.

"Illya, don't make me fight you," Napoleon said, expertly blocking the other man's moves. He pointed his gun. "If I'm your friend, there's no reason to fight. If I'm your enemy, what makes you think I won't shoot you?"

Illya ceased struggling.

Napoleon listened at the nearest door, opened it a crack, and ascertained that the room was empty. He pulled Illya inside and closed the door behind them.

The two men looked searchingly at each other.

To Napoleon's anxious eyes, Illya appeared drawn and pale, but physically sound, aside from seeming somewhat tired. The important thing was he was walking, talking, standing before him - he was alive. Somehow he had cheated certain death and miraculously returned. That was all that mattered. Whatever had been done to him could be undone. Solo would see to that.

Bit by bit, he drew from the disoriented agent the story of what had happened to him, back to his memory of waking in the presence of THRUSH agents. Napoleon attempted to convince his friend he'd been lied to, but Illya was disinclined to believe him, stubbornly clinging to the new identity he'd been given in the absence of a life and a self forgotten.

"Look, we've got to get you out of here and to a hospital so they can fix whatever happened to you, but first I've got to find this botanist and put a stop to this flower power they're brewing."

"Botanist? You mean Madame Frieda."

"Frieda? Hmm, well, you know where she is?"

"She's usually working in the conservatory. It's in a small building in the side garden."

"Fine. Lead the way." Napoleon straightened from the chair against which he'd been leaning and gestured toward the door.

"I don't think I should."

"Well, I do think you should and so does my gun, remember? Illya, I'm not leaving here without you. As long as you're stuck with me, you might as well take me to see your lady scientist. Maybe you'll believe my story if you hear it from her, and see what she's up to here."

"You know, that makes sense, in some peculiar fashion."

"See, you're already beginning to sound like your old self. We'll have you good as new in no time."

The two agents crept back downstairs, out of the house, and through a garden to a small glass greenhouse. Threading their way through rows of bright flowering plants, they approached a woman working at a table cluttered with test tubes and beakers.

"Er, Madame Frieda, I presume?" asked Napoleon smoothly.

Startled, the woman whirled around. She dropped the glass tube she was holding and it shattered on the floor.

Napoleon took a moment to admire her red hair and her shapely figure, or at least what he could see of it in the sheath dress she wore under her unbuttoned, shapeless white lab coat.

The scientist looked from Napoleon to Illya and back again, her eyes widening at sight of the gun in Solo's hand. "Who are you? What is the meaning of this?" she demanded in an outraged tone.

"My name is Napoleon Solo," the U.N.C.L.E. agent suavely introduced himself. "I hope that wasn't anything too important." He nodded at the broken glass at her feet. "I must warn you, though, that I'm here to stop your experiments."

The woman lifted her chin defiantly. "No one can stop science, Mr. Solo."

"I intend to try," he maintained.

"Then Frederick will have to stop you," she countered.

Solo's eyebrows lifted interrogatively. "Frederick?"

"That would be me," a voice came from his left.

Looking in that direction, he observed a guard aiming a gun at him. With a resigned half laugh, Napoleon handed his gun over to the man. As the guard reached to accept it, Solo dropped it. "Sorry, clumsy of me," he murmured.

As the guard bent to retrieve it, Napoleon dove behind a table of plants. He drew Illya's gun from his belt and fired. All it produced was a series of empty clicks.

Raising his hands in the air, he slowly emerged and handed that gun as well to the THRUSH guard.

"You see how much they trust you, to give you an empty gun," he commented to his partner.

Illya looked confused, but said nothing.

"Why should we not trust Mr. Kuryakin? He has only benefited from our work here." Frieda approached Napoleon and whispered confidentially, "Shall I show you what you came so far to see, before Frederick takes you away?"

Napoleon smiled at her. "You have my full attention."

Frieda smiled back beguilingly as she ran a finger down his shirtfront. "Do you like perfume, Mr. Solo?"

"I love perfume," he replied, "when it adorns the right woman."

"Ah yes," she murmured, "it's what I would expect of a gentleman such as you." Abruptly she turned away and walked back to her worktable. "Imagine if you will the intoxication not of a woman, but of a pure scent, a scent so powerful as to invade the senses, cloud the mind, and make it supremely susceptible to suggestion. That is the scent I am producing from the jansoo flower."

"That's what you used on my friend Illya there."

She glanced at the blond man, who appeared to be examining the flowers rather than following the conversation. Periodically he winced and massaged his head.

"Yes, in a very mild form," she admitted. "He made a good test subject, but we really had to do very little. He was already suffering memory loss due to an explosion he had been in. It took a very light dose of the extract to plant the suggestion that he was a fellow THRUSH agent. We will use a stronger preparation on subjects who are in full possession of their faculties. I am close to the final formula now. Perhaps we will test it on you, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon merely smiled. "I see you've surrounded yourself with these rare flowers."

A look of concern descended on her features. "That's out of necessity. The jansoo no longer grows in the wild, you see. I have all the specimens left in the world right here in this room. I have saved them from extinction, cared for them, and now they will repay me with their contribution to my great discovery." She lifted her gaze from the plants to his face. "But I'm sure that's not what you wish to discuss right now."

"On the contrary, I find it fascinating," Solo replied.

"That's very flattering of you, but it changes nothing. Frederick, take Mr. Solo to the house and see he is secured so he doesn't cause any more surprises."

"Sorry, Fred, but I have one surprise left before I go," said Napoleon. He tossed something at Frederick's feet, and it immediately erupted into a stream of smoke. The next moment, he hit the guard with a flying tackle, knocking him to the ground. The gun fell out of his hand and skittered across the floor, sliding to a stop near Illya.

Fully occupied wrestling with Frederick, Napoleon shouted, "Illya! Get the gun!"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin," Frieda seconded. "Pick up the gun - and shoot Mr. Solo with it."

Slowly Illya bent down and picked up the gun. Straightening back up, he pointed it in the general direction of the two struggling men.

As the smoke died away, Napoleon sprang away from Frederick and rose to his feet. The guard did likewise.

The gun wavered back and forth between the two men and the woman.

"Point it at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. He is your enemy!" Frieda insisted.

"Illya, you know that's not true," Napoleon pleaded with his distressed partner. "Didn't you hear what they said? They took advantage of your injury and drugged you. You've got to believe me!"

"No, it's a trick. Do not be taken in by him," urged Frieda. "You know you can trust me."

"All of you, be quiet," Illya finally got out. He blinked and rubbed his head again. "You're all giving me a headache."

"Illya, think," Napoleon implored him. "You know me. You can't forget everything we've been through together. You can't let THRUSH do this. You can stop them."

"Trust me, Illya," Frieda cooed. "Trust me."

Napoleon looked into his friend's troubled blue eyes. "I trust you, Illya," he said. "I trust you to do what's right."

Illya winced again in pain and shook his head. He looked from one to the other, finally focusing on his partner.

"Napoleon?" he asked hesitantly. "Napoleon, I am afraid I do not feel very well."

As Illya sank shakily to his knees, Napoleon leaped forward to help him, taking the gun in the process and turning it on the THRUSH agents.

"It's all right, Illya," he said with a relieved smile. "Everything's going to be all right now."

Helping the blond to his feet, he held the gun on the other two as he walked back to the worktable. Casting an eye over its contents, he asked his partner, "Do you see anything flammable among these chemicals?"

"No! You can't! My work! You'll ruin everything!" Frieda screeched.

"I certainly hope so," Napoleon remarked.

Illya examined the items on the table cautiously, finally selecting one of the liquids. "I think...I seem to remember...yes, this should do," he said and began to spread it around, splashing it across as many of the plants as possible.

Herding everyone out of the conservatory, Solo proceeded to torch the place.

"I think this is a good time to make our exit," he said as they watched the fire take hold and build.

"What about these two?" Illya inquired.

"Let's leave them behind."

Spotting a tool shed across the garden, they conducted the prisoners inside and swiftly tied them up with some rope they found among the tools.

"I think you'll be safe here until we're away," Napoleon said with a bow.

Frieda spit a string of curses at him.

"Now, now, such language from a lady."

The fire was beginning to attract attention. They could hear shouts as people began running to the greenhouse from every direction.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents quickly made their way to the woods and across the island, leaving the sounds of firefighting behind them. They could see that the blaze would consume the entire greenhouse. All that would be left of the jansoo flowers would be a pile of ashes.

Arriving at Napoleon's boat, they cast off and soon left the island far behind.

*****

"Are you quite certain you're well enough to leave the hospital tomorrow, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Oh yes, sir," Illya responded to Mr. Waverly's concerned question. "The headaches are completely gone and the doctors are anxious to be rid of me."

"Glad to hear it. The remainder of the week should provide sufficient time off for you to recuperate. I'll expect to see you Monday morning for your next assignment."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye."

Mr. Waverly departed, passing Napoleon on his way in.

Solo was just taking leave of a very attractive nurse. "So I'll see you then," he said to her as he entered the room.

"Stop flirting with my nurses," Illya complained. "That's my prerogative."

"Ah, but in your weakened state..." Napoleon began.

"Never you mind my state. That's between me and my nurse."

"She tells me you're getting out tomorrow. You're not rushing things, are you?"

"I've just been through this with Mr. Waverly." Illya thoughtfully regarded his friend. He could see very clearly that Napoleon was trying to mask his worry with his breezy air of nonchalance. "It's all right, Napoleon," he assured him gently. "I'm fine. Good as new, just like you told me I'd be."

"Illya..." Napoleon seemed at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "I..."

"It's all right," Illya repeated. "I understand." He grinned lopsidedly. "I would have done the same myself."

Napoleon eyed him consideringly. "Hmm, yes, you would, wouldn't you." He held out his hand. "Well then, I'll be by in the morning to pick you up."

Illya grasped the extended hand and held it just a bit longer than usual before releasing it. "Can I trust you not to get sidetracked by that very attractive, blonde doctor mine called in for consultation? I noticed you had quite an extended conversation with her this morning."

"Illya, you know I wouldn't forget about you, no matter how attractive the women here might be!" Napoleon protested, a smile replacing the worry in his eyes.

"Hah! She must have resisted your charms. Otherwise, you'd be leaving me to my own resources."

"Is that any way to talk after I rescued you from the clutches of THRUSH?"

"Who blew me into their clutches in the first place?"

"Now if you had left the building on schedule like you were supposed to..."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Never," Napoleon smiled.

THE END


End file.
